


Harvest

by Mazarin221b



Series: Through The Clouds [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, Honey, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first two attempts at harvesting honey were disastrous, the honey thin and bitter and half of it lost to inexperience, anyway. This summer had been glorious, though, and Sherlock, and John, had high hopes for a better result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harvest

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite some time ago and posted it to tumblr. I thought I'd drop it here with the rest of the stories in this series.

 

“What…what are they?” Sherlock says, one eyebrow raised in clear disdain.

“Honey pots, I think,” John replies, and takes a closer look at the clear jar with a ridiculous blob of glass on top that’s supposed to resemble a bee. “Colette found them at the charity shop and said she thought of you.”

“I haven’t had a successful harvest yet, John, you and she both know this.” Sherlock traces one long finger over the ridges and hollows of the simulated honeycomb of the lids. “And these are hideous.”

John smiles, “I think they’re lovely. They look nice on the worktop. Besides, Colette gave them to me and I’m not letting you talk me out of them.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes through the French doors into the garden. John watches as he settles onto his favorite chair where he can watch the workings of his hives under the plum tree.

His first two attempts at harvesting honey were disastrous, the honey thin and bitter and half of it lost to inexperience, anyway. This summer had been glorious, though, and Sherlock, and John, had high hopes for a better result. The blooms this year had been heavy and full; the patches of clover and a bit of heather Sherlock had cultivated behind the house had been busy with tumbling, buzzing little black and yellow bodies, and tomorrow, maybe tomorrow the hives would yield their treasure.

John puts the pots down on the mantel and joins Sherlock in the garden, curling into his lap despite Sherlock’s grunt of protest. The chair creaks a little as John settles, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, and John presses a kiss to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw.

“Don’t be so worried. Everything is ready in the barn; we’ll get up early and start first thing.”

“I’m not worried,” Sherlock says, and he sits quietly, stroking his thumb over the back of John’s hand. John is drowsy and content in the late afternoon light until he feels Sherlock shift restlessly under him. John gets the hint and stands, stretching, as Sherlock walks over to a hive and carefully lifts the lid. He stands, staring, and John’s curiosity gets the better of him so he braves the bees and peers around Sherlock’s shoulder.

The combs are heavy with wax and honey, deep amber held fast in neat hexagonal rows. Sherlock pries up a frame and they both carefully slide a finger through the edge, gathering up a tiny bead. There’s a moment of breathless anticipation, then they both taste.

Absolutely perfect.

The next day, two tiny jars, filled to the brim, stand proudly on their kitchen table.


End file.
